


Strength and Stubbornness

by Ginipig



Series: War and Peace [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-29 06:22:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20958662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginipig/pseuds/Ginipig
Summary: Josephine is surprised and disappointed to be the last to learn that the Inquisition's Commander has ceased taking lyrium — and attempted to resign because of it. Having recently grown close to Cullen, she pays him a visit. But not empty-handed. A diplomat never arrives empty-handed.





	Strength and Stubbornness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abhorthealien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abhorthealien/gifts).

> abhorthealien: I promise I started this before the reveal, to give a treat to the only other Josie/Cullen fan. Imagine my surprise when I discovered you wrote my gift! So consider this a treat and a thank you for such a lovely fic.

Josephine relished the cool night air against her skin as it penetrated the light fabric of her blouse and skirt. Tendrils of hair that had fallen loose in her exertions stuck to her sweaty forehead, and she knew she must look a mess. But she hadn’t taken over the kitchen until late evening so her gift could be delivered tomorrow, and she refused to send a messenger with something this important.

As she strode confidently across the stone bridge to the door of the tower, she realized her distressing miscalculation — if he was in as poor shape as the Inquisitor and Cassandra had described, he was likely in his loft resting. Or he should be, at any rate.

Her heart sank. Her primary objective for visiting was to speak with him. The gift was an excuse. (In diplomacy, no strategy had purely one purpose.) Well, partially an excuse; it was also a gift. (A diplomat never arrived empty-handed.) But the concern that her time spent procuring said gift might preclude her from achieving her primary objective had her wondering if she should have just skipped everything and knocked on his door immediately.

No light shone underneath the door or through the small windows, and she bit down on her disappointment.

Three raps on the door — loud enough to be heard in the office, but not from the loft — and then his name.

“Cullen?”

After half a minute or so, she repeated herself, and again another half-minute after that.

No response.

Turning the handle, she realized the door was unlocked — had he forgotten? The door opened almost silently into the dark office.

When she turned to soften the sound of the door closing, she discovered that no, he hadn’t forgotten to lock the door, as there was, in fact, no mechanism to do so.

Well. That would be remedied tomorrow. If anyone deserved a modicum of privacy, it was Cullen.

Josephine tiptoed to the desk and set down her package, and only then did she realize that she hadn’t thought to write a note or tag.

Maker, this whole plan was a mess. She was usually much more organized than this.

Feeling for a candle, she found and lit a stub — truly, Cullen? — and reached for some ink and parchment from his fastidiously tidy desk. Maker, even in illness he ensured everything was organized.

She’d just finished writing out and attaching the tag in the perfect place when a small creak startled her from behind.

“Josephine?”

She whirled around, and there he was, at the foot of the ladder, looking much the worse for wear and far more terrible than she’d imagined.

Cullen wore a simple tunic and trousers, his feet covered in what looked to be thick socks. The shiver that shuddered through him, when considered alongside the dampness of his tunic and the sheen of sweat on his forehead, seemed to indicate a fever, but his ghostly pallor spoke of fatigue and pain that, while not inconsistent with a fever, pointed to a more severe affliction.

Which it was, of course. She had been surprised to learn at this evening’s council meeting that not only had their commander ceased taking lyrium since before his appointment to the Inquisition, but then just today he had _asked Cassandra to replace him_. Concerning and upsetting on both a professional and personal level.

More concerning personally, though, had been the fact that the rest of the council and Cassandra had known this for some time.

So now, not only did she feel the fool for not putting the pieces together earlier, but she also worried that, particularly due to her interaction with important political figures outside the Inquisition, she was considered untrustworthy. The Inquisitor assured her that this was not the case, as Cullen had only told her out of necessity, preferring to keep the knowledge between himself and Cassandra alone. (Leliana, of course, had learned of his secret as she had so many others; and, as with every other, she had kept his in confidence.)

But perhaps worse than all of that was the idea that Cullen didn’t trust her. She felt horribly selfish for even thinking about herself at a time like this, but they’d spent so much time together of late, discussing topics of both professional and personal importance. She had even, to her now growing embarrassment, told him the reason she left the life of a bard to pursue diplomacy.

All of that paled now in comparison to her utter mortification at having been found sneaking into his office and disturbing his much-needed rest.

“Cullen!” She felt her face heat rapidly. “I sincerely apologize. I never intended to interrupt your rest, only to leave you a note.” Pressing her hands to her cheeks in an effort to cool or cover up her telltale blush, she murmured, “I realize now I should have waited until morning. Good night.”

She took a step toward the door.

“Wait.”

She turned back to find him clutching the ladder in a white-knuckled grip and running his other hand through his adorably mussed golden curls which stuck up in all directions.

“What can —” He squeezed his eyes tight for a long moment, as though marshaling his thoughts, and reopened them. “Did you need something from me?”

“No!” she insisted, and he winced, though at the volume of her voice or the content, she wasn’t sure. “That is,” she added quietly. “No. I was not here to discuss work.”

At that, he took a small step toward her without releasing the ladder, and though he seemed to grow a shade or two paler, his next question was filled with an urgency she hadn’t seen outside the war room.

“Are you well?”

A disbelieving laugh escaped her, and she covered her mouth at the indiscretion.

He frowned.

Sliding her hand down to cover her rapidly beating heart, she hissed, “Am _I_ well? I came here to check on you!”

He took a deep breath and straightened, a sure sign, she’d come to recognize, that he was fortifying himself. “I appreciate your concern, but I assure you I am fine.”

“You are most certainly not!” She crossed toward him, sure to keep a respectful distance between them. “The Inquisitor and Cassandra explained that you tried to _resign_ today. And I only know that because I entered the war room for our council meeting while they were discussing your _lyrium withdrawals_!”

Cullen sighed, eyes closing. “I take it all of Skyhold knows by now?”

Now it was Josephine’s turn to draw herself up. “Do you think so little of our council? Or rather, do you think so little of _me_ that I would allow such information to become public?”

His eyes opened, now shinier in the flickering candlelight, and he shook his head. “Of course not,” he said, voice thick. “But I know how rumor spreads.”

Josephine’s smile was a hard one. “Rumor spreads how and when Leliana and I wish it to. She knew, of course, because —”

“She knows everything,” they said simultaneously. It was a common refrain between them.

At the hint of his smirk, Josephine’s smile softened.

Before she could think twice about why it was a bad idea, she asked the question she’d wondered since she’d learned his secret.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The words came out more plaintive than she intended, and she hated herself for making his pain about her.

His face fell — in sadness, or perhaps embarrassment — and he dropped his gaze.

“Because I couldn’t bear for you, of all people, to look at me like that.”

“Like what?” She’d lost control of her expressions the moment he appeared, so Maker knew what he was seeing on her face now.

“Like you pity me.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. How could he think that?

“Pity?” she asked, taking a step forward and laying her other hand on his arm.

His head jerked up, his expression carefully masked like it had always been — before they’d grown close.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But worry? How could I not?”

The mask melted away, revealing a Cullen more open and vulnerable than he’d ever allowed her to see before. His mouth moved wordlessly, his eyes flickering quickly between her face and the point of contact between them.

“I —” He turned from her then, toward his desk, but without moving the arm she held, in such a way that he actually seemed to lean into her touch. “So you left me a note informing me of your worry?”

The smile she showed him was soft, though she wasn’t sure he could see it. “More like wishes for a speedy recovery. And a gift for when you do.”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, cocking an eyebrow, a slight smirk playing on his lips. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought his cheeks darkened several shades.

With a mischievous grin, she gave his arm a squeeze and crossed to his desk to fetch her parcel. As she returned with it, she noticed his entire demeanor had shifted. Now he wore a sweet, lopsided smile that made her stomach flutter in an unexpected but not unpleasant way.

His eyes roamed over every part of her except her hands and the gift they carried. When she stood before him once again, he blinked and seemed to return to himself from someplace far away.

It was a place Josephine wished to visit someday.

She opened the box, watching his face in order to see his reaction.

Without a glance at the contents, his cheeks went from pink to white to grey to almost green. He spun away, covering a retch with his free hand and clinging desperately to the ladder as his legs gave out.

Josephine gasped, grasping his arm and following him down as he eased himself to his knees. Setting the box on the floor behind her, she shoved it away, rubbing his back as he emptied the contents of his stomach.

Contrary to what most believed, Josephine was not a delicate flower. She spent most of her adult life with nobles who consumed (or were in the process of consuming) far too much alcohol; she’d lost count of the number of times she’d been vomited on or at or near and still been expected to be the respectable diplomat.

But none of those instances had been as difficult as this — watching someone she cared for retch until nothing remained to expel, and then retching some more.

When he was finished, Cullen let out a whimper and buried his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no,” Josephine said, brushing his unruly curls from his forehead while continuing to rub his back. “It was my fault. I should have expected —”

“I never wanted you to see me like this,” he murmured into his hands, a few involuntary gasps shuddering through him.

“Sick?” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, wishing for, _welcoming_, him to collapse against her.

“Weak,” he spat, refusing to look at her or relax into her embrace.

“Oh, Cullen.” She smiled, her tone fondly exasperated. “I don’t always agree with Cassandra, but she had the right of it today.”

He made a noise not unlike a growl.

She laughed at that. “You are an utterly stubborn and foolish man.”

He froze, and she used his lack of resistance to bring him fully into her arms, guiding his head to rest on her shoulder. She rubbed his back and ran her fingers in circles against his scalp, and he finally relaxed against her.

“Foolish for even entertaining the idea that any of us could ever think you weak,” she whispered, her breath brushing past his ear. “And stubborn for refusing to see that ceasing lyrium use after over a decade is perhaps the strongest, bravest act I have ever witnessed from anyone.”

He let out a breath that she would absolutely never even consider could have been a sob, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her.

“I wanted to tell you,” he said, voice wavering, “when you told me about your time as a bard. But my time in the Fereldan Circle still haunts me, and without lyrium — the nightmares are so much worse.”

“Oh, Cullen,” she breathed, her lips at his ear. Now his late-night wanderings along the battlements and visits to her office made heartbreaking sense. She clutched him closer, for his comfort and hers, but also to hide her tears. (Diplomatic strategies never had only one purpose.)

“I still want to tell you,” he repeated. “But you’ve always been stronger than I am.”

At that, he buried his face in her neck, and she let her tears for him flow freely. Was that truly how he saw her?

“My mother has always called it stubbornness.” The steadiness of her voice surprised her. “But I like your description better.”

He huffed out an exhale that might have been a laugh.

And he called her strong.

“You never have to tell me anything,” she whispered in his ear, like one of Leliana’s secrets. “But I will be here, whenever you’re ready.”

Josephine wasn’t sure how long they sat there, Cullen grasping her like a lifeline, she soothing and rocking him like a babe. But when she finally felt his breathing slow and his weight grow heavy, she turned her head to see his eyes closed, his expression peaceful in sleep.

Maker, he was so handsome like this, free for a time from the burdens he, both willingly and not, always seemed to carry. For the first time, she saw the attractive young soldier he might have been if not for his experiences in Ferelden (whatever they were) and the mess in Kirkwall that started the mage rebellion.

But as much as she didn’t want to disturb him, she knew he would rest better in his own bed. So she brushed his errant curls from his forehead and softly said, “Cullen.”

His eyes shot open, and his entire body tensed.

“Shh,” she said, her fingers making circles in his scalp, and he relaxed again. “Your bed will be far more comfortable than this.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he mumbled.

She felt heat rush to her cheeks once again. “Be that as it may,” she said, trying and failing not to smile like a schoolgirl. “Do you think you can climb the ladder?”

He nodded against her shoulder before — reluctantly, she thought — pulling away.

Their gazes met, and Josephine’s heart pounded so hard she swore it would give her away.

She admired him; that she could no longer doubt, if she had even wanted to, which she did not. But Cullen was struggling so much that he’d attempted to resign today. The last thing he needed was another complication.

While she returned his gaze as neutrally as possible, he reached trembling fingers out toward her face and brushed a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. His touch was electrifying, and her mouth opened as she exhaled. Then he pulled his fingers back, caressing her cheek as they passed — but not without brushing her nose with his thumb.

He stared at his forefinger and thumb as he rubbed them together, frowning. “Flour?”

“Oh!” Her hands flew to her face, dually removing any more and hiding her embarrassment. “Why didn’t you say something before?”

His chuckle was soft and oh, so deep it sent a chill through her. “I only just noticed. Did you —” He swallowed, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “— make them yourself?”

She pulled herself up into her most regal ambassador posture. “Commander, I do not delegate such an important task as the baking of a friend’s favorite cookies.”

He dropped his gaze, cheeks pinking, but that lopsided smile didn’t fade. “My apologies, Ambassador. I meant not to offend.”

It was he who ended the moment when he grabbed the ladder and began to pull himself up. She stood with him, inordinately pleased when he leaned on her for support. She released him when he seemed steady.

As his gaze drifted over the mess he’d made, he winced. “I should —”

“Rest.” She squeezed his arm. “I’ll clean it up.”

His head whirled to her, eyes widened in horror. “Send someone,” he begged, covering his face with his hand. “Please.”

“If you’re worried about rumors —”

“Better rumors than _you_ —”

Josephine laughed. “If you knew how many Orlesian nobles I’ve had to clean up after —”

“You shouldn’t have to —” He shook his hanging his head. “I’m so sorry.”

She tilted his chin up and pressed a finger to his lips. “It was my fault. I didn’t think what sweet sugar cookies might mean for a sour stomach.”

When his lips parted and his gaze dropped to her own mouth, she quickly pulled her hand away.

“Will you be all right?” she asked, pointing up the ladder.

He looked where she pointed, tightened his jaw, and nodded. Then he ascended the ladder far more quickly than she expected, considering his condition.

“Cullen?” she called after him. “May I —”

“Yes.”

She grasped the ladder and climbed at a pace befitting her inappropriate shoes, only to find him on his knees and far too pale once she reached the summit.

Rushing to his side, she asked, “Are you —”

“In a moment,” he gasped.

She knelt beside him, rubbing his back once again, until he began to push himself once again to his feet. He leaned on her for support more than he had at the bottom of the ladder, and she helped him to the bed.

While he pulled back his comforter, she carefully avoided watching him, only for her gaze to settle on something else.

“Cullen!” Her hands flew to her mouth. “When in Thedas did your roof collapse in? And why didn’t you tell me?”

“Like that when I moved in,” he grunted, sighing as he lay back into his pillows. “I like it.”

She gaped at him. “You _like_ freezing and being snowed on?”

Smirking gently, he gave a weak shrug. “I can see the stars.”

She looked up. The stars were rather lovely. Her heart raced as she wondered what the view might be like from the bed.

When she returned her gaze to Cullen, his eyes roamed her face with a sort of hopeful longing that made her wonder if he was thinking something similar.

“You should rest.” She ran her fingers through his hair once more.

He hummed, eyes fluttering closed, mouth quirking.

“May I check in on you tomorrow?”

There again was that lopsided smile that _did things_ to her insides.

“I’d like that.”

She smoothed down his sweat-damp hair. “Very well.”

And without thinking, she bent over and kissed him on the forehead.

Eyes wide at her own impropriety, she stood and spun around.

But a hand held hers fast, a thumb running gently over her knuckles.

“Josie.”

Her heart jumped to her throat. He had never called her Josie. Always variants on Ambassador Montilyet or Lady Josephine. Only rarely (and recently), when they were alone, had he ever addressed her as merely Josephine.

She turned to see him once again watching her with that sweet, hopeful longing.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

And he pressed his lips to the back of her hand.

Josephine could have melted then and there.

But no ambassador worth her salt would be caught reacting so dramatically to such a simple gesture.

So instead she smiled, squeezed his hand, and said, “Good night, Cullen. Rest well.”

As she descended his ladder — another inconvenience, along with the lack of lock, to be remedied tomorrow; given his condition, the least she could do was requisition some stairs — she heard him sigh, “Good night, Josie.”

When her feet were firmly planted once again on the floor of the office, she set to work cleaning the mess she felt responsible for — if he asked later, she’d tell him she sent a servant, but she refused to open him up to potential rumor more than was necessary.

Once finished, she took the box of sugar cookies (his favorite) and placed it at the very back of the bottom drawer of his desk.

To the bottom of the note she’d left earlier, she added:

> _In your bottom drawer when you’re feeling better._
> 
> _Love, Josie_

With a final glance at the ladder, she whispered, “Sweet dreams, Cullen,” sending a prayer to Andraste for the same. Then she blew out the candle and left.


End file.
